Nice Distractions
by Stephane Richer
Summary: If he had all the time in the world at his disposal he might spend a great deal of it like this


Nice Distractions

Disclaimer: Don't Own

Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE WONDERFUL AMAZING ABSOLUT PI PHI! This fic is dedicated to you...I know it's very short but I hope it will suffice &amp; I hope you have a wonderful birthday!

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Murasakibara's eyes are drooping; they're half-lidded as he stares out at the room framed by the slope of Midorima's neck; he closes his eyes and leans forward, forehead landing at Midorima's collar. Midorima makes a sort of half-grunting sound; the vibration against Murasakibara's skin is pleasant.

"Why are you head-butting me?"

"I'm not," says Murasakibara.

It's easier to just say this than to explain to Midorima how perfect his neck is, the angle at which it rises from his shoulders like the gentle rounded setback of a layer cake smoothed over with icing, how sweet it looks (and tastes, whenever he takes a chance and sucks on it and Midorima blushes and his voice sounds like it's being squeezed and he tells him not to leave a mark). He smells good, too; he smells clean and nice and warm and familiar, the same way he's always smelled, since they were just kids in middle school and they left the locker room together and Midorima helped him tuck in his shirt and smooth his blazer and his proximity left that peculiar combination of spearmint and deodorant on Murasakibara's clothes—and then Midorima hadn't, leaving later and going a different way, and Murasakibara had missed that smell. It seems especially concentrated on the nape of his neck, almost intoxicatingly so. He breathes in deeply and pulls Midorima closer against him; Midorima's breath catches in his throat.

"Stop moving me."

"If Mido-chin came closer I wouldn't have to."

Midorima huffs, leaning back the tiniest bit—he's always so tense like this.

"Is it uncomfortable for you?"

Midorima pauses. "Only when you're pushing me."

"If it is you can get up."

"I'm not—I don't—" he falters and then sighs, leaning back farther.

So it's not, then—but if he likes it why is the tension building in his body? Does he think he's too heavy? He's really not (he could probably stand to add a few kilograms, although he's wonderful the way he is), and he fits well in Murasakibara's lap, filling it without overflowing—even if he usually resists this position the creeping blush on his neck and ears only reinforce his words. He's not comfortable with being this close only because he's not comfortable with being comfortable with being this close—Murasakibara could play with this a little bit more, tease him about other things, but that gets boring pretty quickly and just watching him read, occasionally following along until the end of the page (he always gets there faster than Midorima) and then giving up on it again, just holding Midorima in his arms, is actually quite satisfying.

If he had all the time in the world at his disposal he might spend a great deal of it like this—he'd spend a lot of it eating and sleeping, too, and maybe a bit of it doing other things with Midorima—but as it is with their limited time together they spend too much of it doing other things. It's not that going on dates isn't nice (aside from the times when Midorima refuses to hold his hand at first, although he's getting better at that, and from when he's trying to be cagey or hanging back unnecessarily) because it is, sitting in a restaurant at chairs that are way too small for them and their knees bumping and his hand on Midorima's thigh across the table while they wait for their food, the movement of Midorima's lips as he orders and the dim light off his glasses, or strolling through the park (when he can convince Midorima that they can do it without having any particular destination in mind and just get him to relax) or going shopping together or anything, really. But still, it's nicer, more comfortable, to just sit together so he can properly enjoy Midorima's company and everything about him.

His hands are still unbandaged; Murasakibara's persuaded him to keep them loose at least for the morning, and his nails are shining and perfectly filed down; somehow he always manages to avoid getting grime under them the way Murasakibara always does (sometimes he fusses over Murasakibara's nails and starts talking about filing and clipping and things that are just not worth the effort (better to let the nails break off when they're ready) and he's so fussy about them the way he's so fussy about everything but they do look nice. Murasakibara nuzzles against Midorima's neck again, kisses the bottom of his hairline.

"Hey, Mido-chin."

"What?"

"Read to me?"

"I can't even read to myself if you're distracting me like this."

Murasakibara sights and then kisses the side of Midorima's neck. "Okay. I'll listen; I promise."

"You're not going to like this book."

"I want to hear Mido-chin's voice."

"You're hearing it right now."

It's not the same. Doe she not get it or is he just pretending? Why is he so difficult sometimes when he doesn't have to be?

"Please?"

Midorima huffs. "Fine."

He has a wonderful voice, low like the hum of a refrigerator but without that droning quality. He's right about how boring the book is, though—a page or two at a time had been okay but nothing's really happening to the boring characters and he's not much for flowery descriptions. What's the point of the book? He supposes it doesn't really matter, and it's easier to enjoy the sound of Midorima's voice, the cadences of his sentences, the way he pauses before flipping the pages. Again, Murasakibara hugs him closer, leaning his head forward over Midorima's shoulder.

"I told you not to do that."

"It's okay; you can stop now."

He licks Midorima's ear; Midorima jerks backward and almost elbows him in the stomach, tries to twist around so he can look at Murasakibara. He swivels so he's sitting sideways in Murasakibara's lap, looking up at him with that cute indignant pout of his. Perfect. Murasakibara leans over to press their mouths together—Midorima's is too dry inside but still tastes sweet, like zeppole almost, powdered sugar sucking away the moisture from the surface. The book falls, hitting against Murasakibara's knee and then down to the floor, and Midorima knots his hands in the hem of Murasakibara's sweater, latching on fast. Murasakibara hums into his mouth. Yeah, it's nice like this.


End file.
